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Jesse Noble loves fast cars and even faster women. A professional race car driver, he's used to being in the driver's seat, until a devastating loss on the track forces him to walk away from the only life he's ever known. After months of rehab and soul-sucking depression, Jesse heads to his friend's place in Scotland, thinking a month or two of indulging in the fleshy delights of the Dungeon Fantasy Club will help him maneuver the road to recovery better than any painkillers.
Lucy Martin is the mistress and commander of her world. Labeled an 'Ice Queen' by her co-workers, she hides her tender and passionate heart from the world, even as she hopes to one day find a man who will help soothe her shattered heart. Now her best friend Zoey, the only person on the planet Lucy can confide in, has gone AWOL and left the country for some Scottish laird. On a mission to rescue her BFF, Lucy travels to Mulladoch Manor and has her world turned on its axis; finding herself in an exclusive BDSM club where she feels right at home.
When the dominant Jesse spies the luscious Lucy sporting four-inch stilettos and leather in the Dungeon Fantasy Club, he surrenders to a night of mind-blowing ecstasy, her caresses somehow driving away every one of his inner demons with supreme skill. In the race of his life, Jesse moves out of the driver's seat and willingly becomes her passenger – if only she'll continue tying him up and paddling his bare ass into the most erotically charged, world altering orgasms he's ever experienced.
When their past secrets are revealed, Jesse will have to convince Lucy to enter the fast lane with him – and prove that he's willing to submit to all of his Domme's utmost desires. Can he make the ultimate sacrifice and give up control – for love?
Publisher's Note: While this is the fourth installment of Anya Summer's Dungeon Fantasy Club series, like all the books in the series, it can be read as a standalone. It contains explicit sexual themes including anal play and BDSM elements, as well as femdom scenes. If such material offends you, please do not purchase.
Jesse Noble stared at the little white pill in his hand that he'd poured from an aspirin bottle. Only it wasn't aspirin. He slid the bottle back in his duffel bag in his tent. The team, his team, moved at lightning speeds around him, everyone intent on making sure his stellar Formula One racecar, which the team had lovingly dubbed 'Alice', was fully prepped for the upcoming race.
Jesse debated internally over the ramifications of taking the white pill. Bad idea all around. But hell, his shoulder ached like a son of a bitch. The ibuprofen he'd taken an hour ago—all eight hundred milligrams—had been ineffective in cutting the pain; more like attempting to piss out a forest fire.
This qualifying race was a must win for the team if they were going to compete on the Pro Circuit. He'd practiced this specific track multiple times over the last few days. Jesse had his time whittled down to go neck and neck with the top five racers. All this little white pill would do was ensure he could shift his arm effectively around some of the hairpin turns on the circuit without pain digging into his chest. The whole team, including his sponsor, APEX Industries, were counting on him to have the race of his life and ace this track. In order to move on to the next round, he had to place in the top three.
Nothing like a little nudge to sway his hand, not when there was so much riding on this race. The pressure to succeed, to excel above the rest of the competitors who were all at the top of their game, was always present in his career. As a Formula One racer, the need for dominance, to be the fastest, the best driver on the track, even at the risk to his personal well-being, far outweighed the risks of taking pain medication. It helped his recovery, dulled the sharp edges of the pain.
The only place he ever felt at home was behind the wheel of his racer. The supple leather of the steering wheel within his grip, the smell of rubber grinding over asphalt, the roar of the engines filling his head, and the crowd screaming his name as he zoomed past the finish line. It suited his adrenaline junkie soul perfectly. Winning a race, the pleasure from it, was right up there with mind-blowing sex with a submissive. Most of the time, anyway.
Jesse's need for speed, to be the best, competed with his common sense on more than one occasion. Like last night. As much of a looker as she'd been—a Nordic beauty with a sex kitten bod—in the glaring light of day, the rather perfunctory release he'd experienced at her submission, the agitation to his injured shoulder as he played with an unfamiliar sub, testing her boundaries with a flogger at the BDSM Club, Bondage Gardens, last night had been a bad call on his part.
He debated in his mind the pros and cons of taking another oxycodone this morning. His injured shoulder, where he'd torn a rotator cuff when his shoulder was dislocated at the end of last season, still wasn't fully healed. Jesse had been working to regain strength in his arm but that didn't diminish the throbbing and stabbing pain in his shoulder.
He was supremely lucky that the team doctor made sure he was as pain free as possible. Otherwise, he wouldn't have been able to complete half the circuits he did. The only problem was, the dosage he'd started with didn't seem to work as well anymore, and he'd begun increasing the amounts he took. He'd avoided taking them on race day, but after last night's aerobatics with the cute little blonde subbie, he had agitated the hell out of it. It hurt to move his arm up and down. That was not going to speed him across the finish line before the douchebag, Norman Bardon. An extra one here, an extra one there. It helped, or so he thought. He'd already taken the drug test and passed, so he didn't have to worry about anyone knowing.
Jesse was living the good life. This was what he had trained for his whole life. Why he'd scrimped and saved to put together his first racing car in high school. So for him to back out now, moments before one of the most important circuit qualifying races of his career, was without a doubt asinine, not to mention out of the question. Without further thought, he popped the white pill in his mouth, took a swig from his water bottle, and then stood as the fifteen-minute warning bell chimed. It was a signal that the race was about to begin and all drivers needed to take their marks. He grabbed his helmet, strapping it over his head as his team pushed his Formula One racer, a sweet red and black number with a Ferrari engine, onto the pitch.
He followed them into the glaring sunlight, affixing his face shield over his helmet, and climbed in. Derek and Ben helped double check his straps, making sure he was fastened into the cockpit nice and tight.
Jesse started the engine, feeling the whoop, whoop, varoom of the motor as it revved to life. After one final once over from his team, he drove onto the track, taking his position fourth back in the line-up. The track was overshadowed by cloud cover moving in from the west, the threat of heavy rainstorms nearing as each minute passed. After much debate and a check with a meteorologist, FIA Officials had made the decision to hold the race. The air held the expectancy of strong storms but nothing fell from the heavens yet, with the rain forecast for later in the afternoon and evening.
The other racers took their marks. Jesse held his breath; this was an in-between space, where nothing truly existed for him. He considered it un-time, as the racers and spectators perched on the edge of excitement, creating a dull roar over the crowd as they waited for the contest to start. Engines revved, stirring the crowd who were already on their feet, waving banners and posters for their favorite team and racer. All the extra sound diminished as he focused on the track, seeing the map outlay in his mind, running over the mileage, replaying what he knew about the other drivers. The numbers on countdown hit ten, nine; Jesse gripped the wheel. Eight, seven; his foot perched over the accelerator. Time ticked down to one. The buzzer sounded. The light switched from red to green. Engines that had been puttering in idle formation roared to life as the racers punched the gas.
Jesse felt the usual impact of acceleration as his racer gained speed, holding course with the rest of the contenders. By the third lap, he was holding steady in third place. The car purred like a satisfied lover as he shifted gears, stroking the engine as he swung around a tight seventy-five degree curve in the track. This was the space, in the cockpit, the smell of oil and gas, where he found peace. By the tenth lap, gray clouds had rolled in faster than officials and forecasters had anticipated. A light drizzle coated the track but FIA Officials weren't calling for a halt to the race.
He was pleased with his car's performance. His crew team was the best in the Formula One system, as far as he was concerned. By the fifteenth lap, the light rain had begun mixing with the oil on the track making the turns more precarious. But the officials still hadn't called it. If the worst of the storm could just hold off, Jesse could nudge into first place and get that qualifying run he needed.
His vision wavered, his hands slackened as the wave of the painkiller swamped his system. Sweat rolled down his temples as he gripped the wheel, fighting to stay cognizant as he took a hundred-and-thirty-five degree turn at top speeds. If he could punch it past this turn, he could slide into first and then just maintain his lead. The sharpness of the turn, combined with slick roads and his sudden impairment brought on by the pain meds, made his hold on the wheel slip, forcing him into a tight spin. The squeal of tires roared in his ears, followed by a loud thud as his car barreled into a roll, flattening anything that got in his way, including Marco Fiortino's car.
His head whacked against the side of his seat and it was lights out.
Last week of October
Jesse exited his room on the fourth floor of Mullardoch Manor. He'd dreamt about the damn accident again. He had come here to escape from the hounding of the press. With the review panel hearing coming soon, the media frenzy surrounding his April crash had resurrected to a fevered pitch.
When Declan had made the offer that he could stay at the Manor and Dungeon Fantasy Club until the legal hearings were finished, Jesse had hightailed it from his apartment in Monaco. The rabid zealousness of the media meant he couldn't even venture forth to the grocery store without being photographed or questioned.
And any chance of getting to his favorite BDSM Club, Voyeurs, had been out of the question.
After the short ride in the elevator, Jesse entered the Dungeon Fantasy Club hoping that he'd find a sub to help him pass the time. The resounding bass pumping rock out of the sound system filled the air. He liked Declan's place. The sleek and sophisticated aura and layout of the club were different from his local club, but he really liked this one. The DFC, as everyone called it, was like stepping into first class accommodations BDSM style. The black, ultra-modern décor, where everything was state of the art with clean lines, was plush with hints of the sexual undercurrent always present at a club.
Since he'd arrived a week ago, the offerings at the DFC, while utterly and beguilingly attractive, had barely managed to pique his interest. Not even a little blip on his radar. Which, in his opinion, majorly sucked. He couldn't remember the last time he'd sunk himself into the tight sheath of a willing sub. Jesse's normal change of pace was a much more balls to the wall, anything goes, sampling a different sub every night routine. He wasn't looking for a relationship. Hell, in his line of work, women were more plentiful than flies on shit. On the circuit, he'd had a different one—sometimes more than one—a night. Those who'd been more strictly vanilla, he'd still been able to convince into trying some light bondage. And he had always been more than obliging to accept what was so readily offered.
Except here lately, he couldn't seem to rise to the occasion, any occasion. Since the crash in April, Jesse's life had taken on a monotonous overtone where misery and guilt were his only companions. Christ, just thinking about the crash made his chest tight and the air stutter in his lungs.
He climbed on a barstool, flagging Jared for a beer, and set his black leather goody bag on the stool next to him. This would be his one drink of the night. Ever since the accident, he didn't allow himself to indulge in more than one drink per night, ever. He had to maintain control, which had become too much of a slippery slope. He wasn't an addict. At least, that was what he told himself. But if he loosened the reins a bit, partying more than was wise, he feared he would start popping pills again. Down that road, madness and addiction lay in wait with subtle, welcoming arms.
It was Wednesday night, and the Dungeon Fantasy Club had a small crowd of regulars. When it came to the sub pool, it was slim pickings tonight. While it was early yet, there were only three unattached subs he spied. Darla, Paige, and Alexandra, while each was gorgeous in their own right, not a single one revved his motors in the slightest. Darla was a playful handful, and her slim curves, dressed up tonight in a schoolgirl uniform, should make him want to get on his knees and beg for a scene. Paige's voluptuous bare breasted perfection, her dark rouge nipples enticingly displayed in tiny black leather straps, each one tightened and circled with a dangling pendant triskele disk, should make his cock stand at attention. Then there was Alexandra, the dark skinned beauty who loved ménage and had invited him to join in with her scene last night.
But he couldn't seem to rise to the circumstance. Where Jesse should have experienced a hum of desire at the beautiful bounty available, the most energy he could raise was mild appreciation. As a Dom, his lack of enthusiasm would be a disservice to any one of the subs if he couldn't get into a scene. The dungeon, the familiar and comfortable surroundings of a BDSM club, did soothe him some. It at least helped him to forget, for small slices of time, the ever-present regret residing in his heart and soul.
Jared placed an opened longneck bottle of Stella Artois on the smooth black bar top in front of him.
"You all right?" he asked Jesse with concern stamped across his features.
Jesse liked Jared. He was a right fine Dom, a good man who made him think of Robert the Bruce and other Scottish legends of old. Didn't hurt that the man was wearing his kilt tonight. Jesse knew it made a lot of the subs swoon when they spied Jared in that get up. The three unattached subs were all batting their eyes Jared's way. They'd topped a sub or two together before, and Jesse trusted him as much as he trusted Declan to have his back.
"What do you mean?" Was he that miserable of a bastard that everyone was able to pick up on how different a person he was nowadays?
"It's fine if you don't want to offload your troubles on me, but even I can see you're having a hard time of it. Have you even sampled one of the subs since you arrived?" Jared questioned him, and Jesse knew he meant well. Any other time, he'd tell the man to fuck off.
And that was the issue. He couldn't seem to get himself into the spirit of things. There was a crushing weight on his chest, like the room had had all of the air sucked from it and he couldn't breathe. "No."
Jared harrumphed, his hands on the bar. "Well that's your problem. Pick one, doesn't matter who, do a scene, and you'll feel marginally better."
"Maybe you're right." Jesse took a swig of his beer with a slight nod of acknowledgement at Jared's wisdom as he left to help another patron.
Was he being that much of an idiot and wallowing? His mother had always accused him of being a wallower whenever something bad happened. The two ton gorilla of guilt would always be there regarding the accident. He would never escape it or outrun it, not with the consequences and fallout from it. That was something he couldn't change, no matter how much he wished he could go back to that day and not take that fucking pill. Except maybe, what he could attempt to alter, was how much he had allowed it to affect the rest of his life.
Jesse swallowed a long draught from the longneck, enjoying the flavor of the ale as it hit his tongue. Then he scanned the room, finding Darla still unattached for the night.
Jared was right, he needed to get himself back in the game. Part of the reason he was part of the BDSM lifestyle was because it had always soothed his soul in a way vanilla sex never had, he needed the control, the absolute surrender from a woman, knowing as she writhed beneath his touch, screaming for release, that he was the one who had manipulated her body to such pleasurable heights.
The only way he could re-enter the game was if he jumped all in with a little subbie. Tonight, right now. Picking up his beer and goody bag, he saluted Jared with his beer bottle and the bartender gave him a thumbs up. Then Jesse left the bar, heading for his target. When he reached the cute little subbie in the school uniform, he asked, pointing to the open space on the couch next to her, "May I?"
Darla's green cat eyes practically purred as she nodded her head, licking her lips in expectation. The typical punch of desire he should feel only sputtered in his system. Jesse fought through it. Once he committed to a course of action, he was all in. So his heart wasn't in it one hundred percent. Jesse needed this scene with Darla to get back to being him, so he could prove that the part of himself that had been missing in action since the crash hadn't died that day.
When he reclined next to her, his big body sinking into the supple black leather, she curled her tight body against him. Clearly she was happy he was giving her attention. This would work. It had to.
"How are you, Darla? I've been watching you this week and wanted to see if you'd be interested in a scene with me? What do you say?" He tipped her chin, pleased at the demure smile that spread over her bow-shaped mouth.
"Yes, Master Jesse, I'd like that very much."
At her yielding, he tugged her onto his lap, running his hands over her small, tightly compact body. She was certainly a nice armful, with small, pert breasts. His hand undid the buttons on her blouse so he could cup her flesh. She moaned when his thumb rubbed against her nipple. He scented her arousal. This little filly was a hot piece. And while he may not have his head fully in the game, his dick didn't seem to care, liking the feel of her ass pressed up against his lap.
"Any hard limits I should know about?" He pinched her nipple, tweaking it into a hard peak, watching Darla lick her lips in anticipation.
"I don't like needles or medical play of any kind." Darla spoke frankly, an experienced sub in the lifestyle, thank heavens. He didn't have the patience for instructing a new to the life sub.
"Bondage, discipline, anal?" His hand traveled to the tight apex between her thighs, testing the soft flesh, his fingers pushing aside the confines of her thong, stroking her pussy lips in gentle exploration.
She squirmed in his lap against his hand, gasping when he slid a digit inside her channel, and he noticed her pupils dilate. "I love all of that."
Good, so did he. "Good to know. If you are agreeable, I'd like to do a public scene, with you chained against the wall, and use the whip. What do you say, pretty little Darla?"
She nodded her head in the affirmative, groaning as he stroked his finger in and out of her pussy, already drenched with moisture. "Yes, please, Master Jesse."
Jesse kissed her, taking her mouth in a demanding invasion of tongue and teeth until she was whimpering in delight. When he was satisfied by her response to his kiss, after thoroughly exploring her recesses, he broke contact with her mouth, thankful that his dick was responding for the first time in what seemed like forever.
He helped Darla onto her feet, stood himself, and then slid an arm around her petite waist, which he could span with his two hands. Then he hefted his goody bag, leading her over to the unoccupied scene area he wanted to use. Once they entered the arena, he pulled her over to the wall, stripping the schoolgirl uniform off her pretty body. She was lean and taut, her pretty pussy denuded of hair. When she was nude, he buckled her wrists and ankles into leather restrains that were attached to the stone wall so that she stood spread eagled, with her back to him.
"Darla, your safeword is red, understood? Since this is our first time playing together, if there is something that hurts, or feels wrong, you need to use it. If there is something uncomfortable, I want you to say yellow and we will halt and readjust as necessary, okay?"
"Yes, Master Jesse," she sighed.
Jesse withdrew his whip from his toy bag. Using the whip was similar to racing for him; it took skill and concentration to use properly. He tested his arm, thankful that his rotator cuff had healed and given him mobility without pain. Then he snapped the whip, testing a few lashes against the wall before he laid it across Darla's creamy flesh.
He flicked the whip. The strike caressed the creamy white mounds of her ass. He started with gentle strokes, testing Darla's response. The whip transformed into an extension of himself, an extra appendage he used as he rained whacks along her back, buttocks, and legs. Every time his whip retracted, the coiling black leather electrically alive with energy, it left a series of blazing red stripes across her flesh in its wake.
Darla's responses to the whip were a Dom's dream brought to life. The pretty brunette moaned and writhed with every caress of the leather against her skin. He increased the pressure and force of his lashes, driving the little sub into higher orbit. Darla's keening cries of ecstasy filled the space. Repeatedly he struck a new swath of flesh, transforming her back and butt into a fiery red mass.
Moisture of her arousal dribbled down her milky spread thighs from her apex. The Dom in him rumbled his delight at witnessing the sub's exquisite pleasure. Wanting to reward her, Jesse delivered another ten strokes, harder than he previously had, bent on driving Darla over the edge into subspace.
"Master," she keened, mewling moans flowing from her mouth unimpeded as she neared her climax.
After the final stroke, he laid the whip down, unzipped his leathers, and covered his cock with a condom from his toy bag. He walked over to Darla, who was on the razor's edge of coming, fitting his cock at the entrance to her pussy dripping its readiness, and plunged inside her tight-fitting cunt. He gritted his teeth at the snug feel as her pussy constricted around his cock.
Darla groaned as he established a no-nonsense pace bent purely on release. His dick didn't mind as he thrust, holding her hips for purchase as he fucked her, hard and brutally fast. In no mood for extended play, his balls tightened and his cock swelled as he pumped his hips in rapid succession, the sound of his balls smacking against her flesh filling the space. He reached around, his hand zeroed in on her pussy. He teased his fingers over her clitoris, rubbing her sensitive nub as he pounded his dick, feeling the head hit the walls of her womb. His cock lengthened and jerked, his balls tightened as pleasure curled up his spine. Gripping her nub between his thumb and forefinger, he squeezed and felt her climax shudder and clamp around his dick. He plunged his cock as his own orgasm hit, his cum spurting in hot jets inside the condom. Jesse thrust his hips until his dick stopped thumping and spilling semen.
When his body ceased it tremors, he withdrew his semi flaccid cock. The release, while nice, had left him more unsatisfied than when he'd begun. A piece of his soul had died on the track that day. It had nothing to do with the sweet little sub Darla. The fault, the cause, was all on him. In an effort to shield Darla from his true feelings, he took care of her, seeing to her needs as she sagged against the wall in her restraints. He tossed his condom in the trash, fixing his own clothes. Then he helped Darla out of the restraints, wrapping a blanket he'd taken from the armoire around her shoulders, and carried her over to a nearby couch. He grabbed a bottle of water from Sherry as she passed by with a tray.
Darla sighed against his chest as he cradled her form, her contentment with the night's scene obvious. In another life, he would have felt the same, but no more. Jesse couldn't help the hollow emptiness that took hold and overrode what should have been a great scene.
How could he pick up the pieces of his life, if his soul had all but died?